


own the road

by youremyqueen



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh the Abridged Series, Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Pre-Slash, Vignette, YGOTAS Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:51:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youremyqueen/pseuds/youremyqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marik is made of unsubtle things.</p><p>(abridged!verse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	own the road

**Author's Note:**

> i very much don't know what i'm doing and mostly just wanted to practice characterization? i feel like i should be writing sillier fic for this silly fandom, but i just want to write semi-fucked-up romance without reading the actual canon, oops.

Marik is made of unsubtle things. Sand under fingernails and gaudy lashes and maniacal laughter. The way the wind in the summer tastes like gasoline. There is a child crying at the far end of the parking lot. Bakura feels sweat soaking through the back of his shirt. This is ridiculous.

He says, "This is ridiculous," and glares at their comically underwhelming getaway vehicle. The motorcycle's paint is chipped in places. The child keeps crying.

Marik grins at him. "I only have the one helmet, so road safety may be an issue!" It's not an issue, though. It's a joke. Everything is a joke to Marik, which wouldn't be such a problem if he had a more sophisticated sense of humor. He gestures at the helmet, then the bike, then Bakura. "One of us could possibly die in a fiery collision! And by 'one of us,' I mean you!" He laughs loudly and puts the helmet on, climbing onto his pathetic little bike. It's still ridiculous.

"I doubt this thing even reaches the speed necessary to result in combustion," Bakura says disdainfully. He doesn't move, just stands there. Marik gestures wildly - extraneously - for him to climb on. People in the parking lot are staring. "I suppose I have to wrap my hands around your midriff?"

"Hurry up, Bakura!" Marik squawks, ignoring the question. "They'll catch us any moment with you dawdling around like that! You can't just stand there politely when people are trying to violently murder you, no matter how British you are!"

More and more shoppers are stopping to look at them. Bakura pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"Marik, they haven't been chasing us for hours. We literally stopped for snowcones on the way here."

"They had blue raspberry flavor! It's usually sold out! You'll thank me when you come to your senses! Get on!"

Bakura gets on, but only because he wants to leave here as quickly as possible. That abominable child is still crying, louder now, and if he has to hear it much longer, he's going to rip off its little child arms and use them to beat its inattentive parents into bloody wrecks. And he rather doesn't want to do that. Marik's very committed to evil-doing - has made up evil-doer flashcards and has Bakura quiz him with them at unscheduled intervals - but he's rather squeamish about blood. Last time Bakura had beaten someone to death, Marik had vomited on his own shoes, and then thrown a tantrum about having vomit on his shoes. It had been funny until it had not been anymore.

Bakura gets on, Bakura cups the lines of Marik's waist and Bakura feels the sun-warmth of his skin, all daylight whistle and good health; living, alive things. Bakura sometimes forgets that Marik has only existed for sixteen years. He's so new, only a boy yet. His skin quivers under Bakura's fingers, an instinctual bodily reaction. There's flexing muscle and blue raspberry breath, the cold tint of a breeze flicking past them as Marik starts to rev the engine, and Bakura blinks and swallows and remembers why he had signed up for this, and why he had stayed signed up.

The world moves past them, the crying fades out. Bakura's fingertips adjust to Marik's body temperature.

It's a lot like riding down the road to the future, only at eight miles per hour. A group of elderly women on a walking tour passes by them on the third block. It's, of course, ridiculous.


End file.
